


A Blue Monday and Bulls in Bristol

by shadowlev



Series: Familiar Taste of Poison [1]
Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Anal Sex, Couch Sex, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, No Lube, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowlev/pseuds/shadowlev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl helped Mitchell through getting clean. He took the control that Mitchell couldn't. However, he was fleeting, and when he walked out the door, Mitchell was left with the tenuous hold of his self control. </p>
<p>George heard about Mitchell living with Carl and that Carl had killed his male lover. The wolf smelled the truth out behind the two lines of dialog. Now, the wolf shows Mitchell to whom he belongs. With concrete fierceness, George takes control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Blue Monday and Bulls in Bristol

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this series is going to explore the reaction of George to Mitchell's libertine behavior. It will contain darker elements. The title is a merge of two song titles, of Blue Monday by Orgy and Bulls in the Bronx by Pierce the Veil, to somewhat describe the dual situations in this work.

            The air reeks of the heady musk of pheromones. Senses keen for the perfume of bodily signals, sensitive to hormone shifts and pounding blood, could tell the second the source entered the room. The warm lights of the kitchen contrasted from the cool ceramic on his fingertips. Just his fingertips. His palms were covered with knitted wool that guards not his skin from cold but his cold skin from others.

            The musk hit first, but the body heat is what paralyzes him. It’s almost tantalizing, prickling every follicle of hair on his body. His jaw hangs loosely, his muscles not working, even as he feels the heat drawing nearer. Usually the heat is associated with feeding; he feels arousal at that thought alone. However, the thought that an attempt to make prey from this heat would fail miserably, with him at the bottom, thrills him deeper than any blood could.

            The third assault is that of the tangible presence behind him. There was the feeling of a body standing an inch or so away, but not touching. The pillow of warm air cushioned the two bodies, pressed teasingly along the back of his t-shirt and jeans. He can feel all too well the inch of skin exposed on his hips. Despite his desire to hide it, to pull his shirt down, his jeans up, he cannot move for fear of disrupting the pillow. He can barely move his mouth to swallow the lump formed in his throat. His jaw hangs slightly open, and he can now taste the musk.

            The fourth wave is in the form of a whisper, but has the force of a shout. It ignites the air between the two, like a spark, but smoother and softer. It’s in that soft voice of his, but it carries with it the power of the wolf, “He fucked you, didn’t you?”

            “Yes,” comes up from deep, in a move of jaws and exhalation of air. It comes from the truth that can never be hid from all that primal animal instinct barely reigned in behind him. He blinks.

* * *

 

            Getting off blood amplified every sense. Through the senses, every touch, every caress followed through. It always happened, even when he was in control of the sex, but being at someone else’s mercy seemed to turn the amplifier to overdrive. He balanced on the edge of sanity.

            Kinks run in sub-culture. The taboo breeds the taboo. When you’ve felt someone else’s blood pulse out of their body, forced from their heart with their life energy, then you can no longer be part of the mainstream. You become a subculture with no heed for common social distaste. Becoming a pervert means nothing when you are already a murderer. Vampires are well versed in the art of sadomasochism, with it running through their veins with stolen blood.

            A thick rope binds his wrists to a hook above his head. A tongue traces the dark line of hair down to his waist, even as he sweats from pure desire. Carl looks up with a pristine smile, completely clothed in elegant business attire. One leather gloved hand unzips and pushes the tight jeans off his body to touch the bare skin beneath. Mitchell undulates his hips in an attempt to get more friction from that smooth leather, but the grip is too soft.

            Carl is always fleeting, but he is Mitchell’s Reason for cleanliness. In this new millennium, he is the only thing Mitchell has, regardless of how abstract. The hand on his cock is barely there, but it’s still an attachment and it still Feels. Fucking. Great.

            “Please, oh please,” Mitchell begs, sweating. Just the lack of blood is enough to make even the minutest playing torture. The leather hand travels around to grip the swell of his arse, dark red from the paddling Carl delivered to him earlier. Pain transmits straight to the swell of his cock, intensifying his arousal.

            A loud smack echoes through the room as leather meets sore flesh. Mitchell hisses, eyes clenched, as his hips thrust forward from the force of the blow. Carl’s eyes flash, with a stern click of his tongue and a smile. He’s cinnamon, sweet and biting all in one.

            “Not very polite, Mitchell, where are your manners?” and the hand returns to slap the Mitchell’s bruised arse. Mitchell gasps and begs even more. The soreness alerts his senses to every detail of his past half hour. The hard, yet smooth wooden desk supporting his torso. The smell of oak and varnish in his nose as his wrists bind him in place. The darkness behind his eyelids until they flashed red. The sweat dripping down his forehead to the desk from his nose, rivuleting down his back. The firm leather hand holding the small of his back down. The stiff leather paddle bursting across his jeans, over and over and over again with each fresh flash of pain lighting his senses anew. Being unable to stop any of the pain or relieve any of the tension in his jeans, or to stop the kicking of his legs.

            “Master, please, sir, I’m sorry, please take me,” Mitchell begs so prettily and politely that Carl smiles gently and kisses him. It’s a passionate kiss, tender and caring and so contrasting to Mitchell’s feelings. It keeps him grounded.

            He’s lubricated carefully and stretched, even as the brunette begs for release. Carl releases his cock from his pants, but only his cock, as he maintains his dress. With one hand under Mitchell’s left leg, holding him up and open, Carl takes him.

            Carl continues to take him. Mitchell remembers the loving caresses bestowed upon him after sex. He remembers being free of the lust. He remembers being held away from the faces by someone that cared. He remembers Carl giving him a kiss on his forehead and walking out to be with a new lover. He remembers being free to face the memories alone. He remembers losing control yet again.

* * *

 

            “Did he fuck you open and leave you dripping?” the whisper turns raspy, growling. Mitchell nods in affirmation, unable to speak, as one of those big hands grips his hip. It grasps the handle of bone, covering t-shirt, jeans, and the strip of skin between with fierce territorialism.

            “It’s been a while, though, since you’ve been spread wide and fucked proper. Your arse hasn’t gotten much use,” comes the growl, but it has tones of affection. Mitchell gulps as George presses his larger body against his slighter frame. The firm press of jean covered cock against his ass is something that is memory evoking.

            Claiming teeth latch onto his juncture of neck and shoulder. They mark in bruises, not in punctures and gashes, and they are for a mate. Mitchell lets out a moan and that is all the beast needs for consent. It smelled the past on Mitchell and Carl and had been waiting for the opportunity to erase it.

            It was a good thing Annie decided to hang out with other ghosts, because George was not waiting. An arm wrapped around his waist and dragged him over to the couch. Roughly draped over the arm, Mitchell feels his jeans getting yanked from their tight hold on his hips to the floor. He feels two hands pushing his thighs apart and a wet tongue lapping at his entrance. Though he squirms against the tongue, motivated by the conflicted feelings of arousal in his stomach, Mitchell welcomes it. It would probably be the only preparation he would receive.

            George’s pants hid the ground and the wolf mounts him, cock resting against his entrance. George’s body is flush against Mitchell’s own, and urges him forward onto the couch completely. Teeth bite dominantly on his shoulder as one hand shoves his torso down while the other pulls up his hips. The leather of the couch fills Mitchell’s nose, reminding him of blacker times, but the cock nudging against his entrance erases all thoughts.

            George slides right in to the hilt, stretching the slight brunette’s asshole painfully without second thought. Mitchell gasps and shifts, eyes clenched shut, but strong hands hold his ass flush against hips. George runs a hand through the tangle of dark hair soothingly, lapping at the mark he made, but doesn’t wait long before brutally fucking Mitchell into the couch.

            It’s fast and hard. Each thrust has Mitchell’s toes curling and groans coming from deep in his chest. The wolf makes all types of odd howling noises. Mitchell’s hips kill him, his hole protests the abuse, but his arousal just builds exponentially. Here is something solid and passionate. Here is something concrete.

            “Ah, ah, ow, fuck George, keep going,” Mitchell groans out, spreading his legs wider. George finds the perfect spot and pounds it relentlessly.

            “Ahwooo, God, Ooowooo, dear God,” George pants out, rising up lengthen and strengthen his thrusts. One hand that has been tangled in Mitchell’s hair tightens and pins the vampire’s head to the couch in a painful grip. It’s enough pain to set him off.

            Mitchell comes with a breathy gasp and turns boneless. The only thing preventing him from landing in a puddle of his own cum is George gripping his hips with both hands and speeding up to come deep in his ass with a howling moan.

            The two pant as the larger relaxes and slips his cock out of the slighter, still holding his hips aloft. Mitchell feels cum trickle out of his arse. George sits back on his knees, watching the white trickle out against white skin, mesmerized. They catch their breath in silence. The vampire turned his head back and grinned.

            “Good thing I have good healing powers,” Mitchell murmurs. George looks down at him. His glasses are crooked and steamed up on his face. He crooks an eyebrow and tilts his head confusedly.

            “What…d’you mean?” George asks. The dark haired male sits back up with a grimace.

            “I told you, I hadn’t done it in a while. Surely didn’t stop you from climbing on top and pounding away without any preparation,” Mitchell teased even through a pinched smile. A warm arm wraps around his waist and pulls him back against a broad chest. George kisses his neck.

            “The wolf was acting up. I’m sorry, but, ah,” George smiles and nuzzles closer, “I do believe you enjoyed it.” Mitchell looks back with gleaming, gleeful eyes and a broad crooked grin before busting out in giggles.

            “Regardless of that, I still cannot walk properly right now and do not fancy Annie walking in on this,” Mitchell chuckles, “She’s been accusing us of indecent relations for a while yet,”

            “Fine, I’ll fix it,” George says, and gets up off the couch to gather the two pairs of jeans that have been shed. The vampire frowns at the sudden chill he feels, being naked from the waist down. George looks up and points at him, “And you going commando is not acceptable for day to day dress.”

            Mitchell gives him a cheeky grin, but wonders how he is going to walk up the stairs. He hasn’t exactly filled up on healing blood lately. George slings the pants over his shoulder and fixes his quandary in a hurry. Diving in, he lifts Mitchell up and over his other shoulder. Mitchell laughs and protests the whole way up the stairs, but the wolf just pats his arse and drops him on his bed before landing on top of him and passing out.

            The darkness behind the vampire’s eyelids didn’t seem quite so lonely anymore.

           


End file.
